


Leave At Your Own Chosen Speed

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-30
Updated: 2006-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:38:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's needy and desperate and angry about it, as if he can fuck them both back to life. (coda for "Bloodlust")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave At Your Own Chosen Speed

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mousapelli for handholding, and to luzdeestrellas for her patience and mad beta skills.

The first time, it's an accident: there's an abandoned newspaper in the laundromat, and he reads it while the laundry spins. It contains a small article on cattle mutilations in the general area, but he can't find any news of people missing or dead. He tells Sam he's going on a supply run after the laundry's done, and heads out of town as night is falling.

Since he knows what he's looking for, she's pretty easy to find. He sits in the car and watches. Those poor animals don't stand a chance, and he's tempted to head down there and start chopping off heads, but there are more of them than there are of him, and he's trying, he's really _trying_ to grasp the idea that vampires can change. If they can change, he can, too, though it still feels unnatural and wrong.

But what doesn't these days?

His hands itch for the knife and he tightens them on the steering wheel, skin pulled white across the knuckles. He thinks of death, of the things that live on after it, in the shadows, waiting for him to come and kill them again. He thinks of second chances, and the unfair way they're handed out, no thought given to who deserves what, and when has anyone or any_thing_ gotten what they deserved without someone like him around to make sure of it, anyway?

He watches as long as he can stand it, and when he starts the car, they scatter like roaches when the lights go on, but Lenore looks up and over, finds him as if she'd known he was there the whole time (he knows she has his scent, but that doesn't scare him like it should). In the bright glare of the headlights, her face is flushed and solemn, and her lips are red with blood.

He dreams about her, sometimes, in the brief snatches of sleep he catches at night, wakes up in a cold sweat with images of being lowered into his own grave and then rising again flickering behind his eyelids. It's so vivid one night, he barely makes it into the bathroom before he pukes up the tacos he had for dinner, and then he stands under the lukewarm spray of the shower for fifteen minutes, trying to remind himself it was just a dream.

He ignores Sam's concerned glances, lets them skate over him like water off a duck, tells himself he's holding it together. Thinks, _nothing to worry about here, Sammy, please stop looking so closely,_ and hopes Sam gets the message.

Once he knows where they are, they're easy to track. They only stay in the same place for a few weeks at a time now. He catches up with them in Casper, then again in Laredo, nights when he should be sleeping but can't, and doesn't want to face Sam's clumsy but well-meaning attempts at comfort he desperately wants and can't accept.

There are only five now, he notices, and he wonders if Gordon's been tracking them, as well, or if he's leading Gordon to them. He doesn't like either idea.

This time, he finds the nest, about half a mile off the county road--an old raggedy-ass A-frame with a wraparound porch that looks like it's ready to fall to pieces. Lenore is waiting under an old oak tree for him, bone white in the moonlight.

He steps out of the car, holds up his hands, though every instinct screams against being unarmed in the face of a predator. The knife in his waistband isn't close enough to hand if she wants to kill him.

And yet he's the one reassuring her. "I'm not--"

"I know," she says without hesitation. "But what--"

"Seeing is believing."

"You don't trust us."

He laughs. "Should I?"

"Have we given you a reason not to?"

"_You_ haven't." He leaves the _yet_ unspoken, though he's pretty sure she hears it.

She smiles, and he gets the feeling she's laughing at him. She reaches out and takes his hand, her fingers cool and smooth against his, her thumb rubbing circles over his skin. He fights the urge to pull away.

"And I won't."

"I guess we'll see about that." He looms over her, well aware that his superior height and reach give him no advantage, even as she brings his hand up to her mouth, presses her lips to the thin skin of his wrist. He remembers the way she looked with Sam's blood dripping onto her face, fangs extended, hissing like a snake, like the monster she is. Her lips are dry and surprisingly warm, and he can feel her inhaling, breathing in his scent.

He jerks his hand away, but she doesn't let go, and stumbles against him. She's soft and curvy, like a real girl, and the scent of patchouli clings to her hair, tickling his nose. She looks up at him, eyes dark and lips parted on a surprised gasp that turns into a smile, which he wants to wipe off her face. He leans in, moving before he can think to stop, and covers her mouth with his. She gasps again and kisses him back, sending a hot thrill of triumph rolling through him. Her tongue is slick-rough against his, and he's glad she hasn't fed yet, or he doesn't think he could go through with this.

He pushes her back against the tree, unzips her hoodie, and shoves his hands up under her t-shirt to cup her breasts. She's not wearing a bra. She could stop him if she wanted to; that she doesn't is all the permission he needs. She runs her hands through his hair, pulling when he bites down on her full lower lip and sucks it into his mouth. She moans, grinding against him, and that's encouragement enough to unbutton her jeans, push them and her underwear down over her hips, and slip his fingers inside. He's not sure what he's expecting, but she's wet and warm, like every other girl he's ever fucked. And like every other girl he's ever fucked, she likes it when he thumbs her clit, thrusts against his hand, begging for more.

He whispers in her ear, "You like that?"

She answers with a soft choking noise that sends a jolt of need right to his dick.

He slides his fingers over slick, wet folds, dipping inside to tease her even as he continues to circle her clit. Her hands fumble at his waist, and he laughs into her mouth, that he can make her nervous, clumsy. He lowers his head, grazes his teeth along her neck as she arches into him, and laughs again at the irony of it. And then it's his turn to gasp as she unzips his jeans and wraps her fingers around his dick and squeezes. She's not shy and she's not gentle and _fuck_, it feels good.

She's watching him, and he can't figure out what he sees in her eyes--disdain, amusement, challenge--but he wants to wipe it away, burn it clean out of her and replace it with lust. He thumbs her clit roughly, fingers still thrusting in and out, until she arches and comes shaking in his arms. She's still trembling as he shoves her jeans down, lifts her left foot clear.

He pulls the condom out of his pocket--he'd known he was going to do this, wanted it for a while now, even if he pretends to be surprised--and she laughs breathlessly.

"I'm not going to get pregnant."

"Yeah," he answers, tearing the foil and rolling the condom on, "but God only knows where you've been."

The flash in her eyes could be hurt, could be amusement--he's not sure, and he doesn't care. He hoists her up, and her hair catches on the bark. She sucks in a sharp breath, but he doesn't give her time to recover. She doesn't seem to need it, just wraps her legs and arms around him, and pulls him close.

When he presses up against her, there's no heart beating in her chest, and no pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. Her flesh is soft and yielding under his hands, but he reminds himself she's not human, not anything he should be anywhere near without a knife in his hand and hunting on his mind. Dead thing, just like him, only she's all dressed up in a pretty girl body. She's hot, wet, and tight when he fucks into her; he's needy and desperate and angry about it, hips thrusting relentlessly, as if he can fuck them both back to life.

She gasps as he thrusts into her, and he covers her mouth with his hand, still slick from her body and dark against her dead, white skin. "Do you even need to breathe?" he whispers in her ear, and she shakes her head, goes silent, lets him fuck her.

He scrapes his teeth along her jaw, over the sensitive flesh of her throat, watching as blood pools black under her skin, sluggish and old, like a healing bruise. He can feel her unnecessary breath against his hand, moist and warm, and he slips two fingers into her mouth. She sucks on them roughly, using her teeth, quietly defiant.

Her cunt tightens around him, pulling him in deeper as she comes again, with soft choking cries muffled by his fingers. The sound makes pleasure coil higher and tighter inside him, and then unravel in a rush as he comes deep inside her, low growl in his throat.

He presses his face to the crook of her neck, breathing in the patchouli on her skin and the green smell of the tree, and the odd sweet scent of her sweat, faint hint of copper and decay reminding him what she is.

He pulls away, barely waiting for her to get her feet under her, tosses the used condom into the brown grass, and cleans himself up with some old napkins from his jacket pocket.

"Dean," she says, still standing there with her shirt rucked up and her jeans and panties down around one ankle, gleaming pale in the moonlight like a statue.

"Don't," he says, low and dangerous and full of loathing for her, for himself, the flush of pleasure devoured by anger and guilt.

She nods slowly, lips swollen from his kisses, neck bruised from his teeth. She says, "Drive safely," like she's just had him over for a freaking Tupperware party or something.

He gets back to the motel room and forces a grin when Sam rolls over and squints at him curiously. For the moment, it's enough to keep Sam's questions at bay, and it doesn't hurt to let Sam think he's slipping back into his old habits, even if the truth is that he hasn't been able to work up enough interest in a girl to make it worth anyone's time since Dad died. At least, not a live one.

He's up early enough to make a supply run in the morning, but Sam's awake when he slips back into the room. Sam looks like he wants to ask questions, but Dean holds up the coffee and the grease-stained bag containing breakfast, and shakes his head in warning. Sam lets it go for now, but Dean can tell he's only postponed the inevitable conversation about what Dad did, and said, and why.

It's a conversation Dean doesn't want to ever have, because he's afraid he won't be able to hold back the anger and the guilt if he starts talking.

Two weeks later, and they're crossing Texas in the other direction; he drives four hundred miles out of the way so he can see her again. He drops Sam off at the closest Super 8 and heads to the old A-frame as night falls.

There's a truck parked in front of the house, and Lenore is supervising two of the male vampires as they load it.

They form up like bodyguards in front of her, but she waves them off as if he's no threat at all.

"It's all right," she says, and Dean's not sure if she's talking to them or to him. It doesn't really matter. They give him the stink-eye but disappear with minimal grumbling. He wonders if she made them what they are, and that's why they listen. The thought makes his stomach curl in disgust.

She cocks her head, gives him the once-over, lush mouth slowly curving in a smile.

"Wasn't expecting you back quite so soon."

He lets his lip curl into a sneer. "Wasn't expecting to be back at all."

"I see."

It's obvious she knows he's lying, so he puts his hands on her shoulders and hauls her in for a kiss, and she lets him. She curls her fingers into his shirt, starts walking them back towards the porch, never breaking the kiss, her tongue soft and slick in his mouth. She's surefooted even in the dark, but when they hit the first step, he slides his lips up to suck on her earlobe so he can look over her shoulder and see where he's going.

She guides him to the rickety porch swing, turns them around, and pushes him down to sit on it and then climbs into his lap. Her mouth is hot and hard against his throat, and he imagines her lips red with his blood, wonders if she'd turn him or just kill him, but he doesn't ask. Doesn't want to give her any ideas. He knows which way he'd do it, though, and which he'd prefer.

Her hands are cool and dry when they slip up under his flannel to touch his skin, ladylike fingers pinching his nipples hard enough to make his breath catch and his dick twitch.

She flows like water out of his lap, down to her knees, those elegant fingers easily opening the buttons of his fly.

Her mouth is wet and hot and soft, her tongue writing truths on his flesh he doesn't want to believe, even though it feels fucking fantastic, best thing he's felt in weeks, or maybe it's just a tongue on his cock, and that never doesn't feel fantastic, and the rest is craziness. He doesn't know what he's thinking anymore, head all jammed up with secrets and lies, but she's sucking his brain out through is dick, and maybe that's just what he needs. He comes hard, spilling himself down her throat, the tension that's been holding him together breaking like badly sewn stitches across a gaping wound.

When he opens his eyes, she has one hand down the front of her jeans and is grinding down against it as she licks him clean with her little pink cat tongue, and he wonders vaguely if semen is a good substitute for blood, but decides he doesn't want to know.

He reaches down and grabs her arms, hauls her back into his lap and shoves his hand down into her jeans, slipping his fingers around hers so he can get at her clit and rub. She bucks against him, and he wraps his other arm around her shoulders, tangles his fingers in her hair so he can pull her in for a kiss, taste himself on her tongue. He works his fingers inside her despite the limited space available because of her jeans, suddenly remembering the furtive hurried fumbling in stairwells or bathrooms when he was in high school, and getting some girl to let him finger her was like finding the holy grail.

Her whole body stiffens for a second and then her cunt ripples around his fingers, clenching tight as she comes; she gasps into his mouth and slumps against him, her head on his shoulder, to ride it out.

He gives her a couple of minutes--his hand is trapped between them and he's still mellow from his own orgasm--but he pulls away when she's done. She grabs his hand, sucks his fingers into that dirtyhot mouth of hers, and his dick might be vaguely interested in the possibility of another go-round, but he's not, not really. He pushes his way out of her embrace, leaves her sitting there, her lips saliva-slick and swollen, and her legs spread out loosely in front of her.

"We're heading to Pascagoula," she says, winding a lock of black hair around a pale finger, looking for a second like a regular girl who wants to see him again, and he's played that scene a hundred times if he's played it once.

He watches her for a long moment, and pretends he doesn't understand. "Here's a quarter. Call someone who cares." It's too dark to read the expression in her eyes as the coin clatters against the wood at her feet, and it's not like he gives a damn.

In the rearview mirror, he can see the mark she left on his neck, red and angry. He presses his fingers against it, wishing it would leave a scar, proving he can still feel something other than angry and hurt.

He doesn't wonder about death by exsanguination. He already has some idea how that might feel.

Sam shakes his head when Dean gets back to the motel, and on the one hand, Dean is glad, because the last thing he needs is for Sam to figure out where he's going, what he's doing. On the other, though, he's itching for the fight Sam's disgust would bring. At least it'd show Sam was paying attention, and since Dean can't accept Sam's comfort, he's willing to take his anger. It's not like he doesn't deserve it.

But Sam just sounds sad when he says, "I hope she was worth it," and there's nothing Dean can do with that, so he pretends he doesn't hear.

They head up to Fort Worth--they were supposed to be there two days ago, and Dean has no good excuse to offer for why they're not--in the morning, and he wonders if they've passed Lenore and her minions on the road, or if they only drive at night.

Fort Worth is a cakewalk, a restless spirit rattling the windows and shuffling the furniture around in an old folks' home, and after it's done, Dean is tempted to take a few days off, head down to the Gulf Coast, but Sam says, "There's rumors of a rash of demonic possessions in Jackson." Dean's heart clenches in hope, or possibly fear, but Sam shakes his head, as if he knows. Hell, he probably had the exact same reaction. "Not our guy. At least, not from what Bobby said. But still our kind of thing."

Dean nods, shifts the car into gear. "Then let's go."

They're two hundred miles into the trip, radio a low buzz of static in the background as they pass from one stretch of road to another without strong signals, when he recognizes the song Sam's been humming for the past half hour. He remembers his father singing along with Johnny Cash as he drove, a rare grin on his face when June Carter chimed in and gave him what-for.

Dean's hands tighten on the wheel and he shoots a glance over at Sam, whose humming stutters and stops at whatever he sees on Dean's face.

"I guess the fire went out," Sam says.

Dean can tell he's trying to be funny, but he doesn't laugh. "Whatever, dude. Lame."

Sam sinks into silence, and Dean curses himself, because even though it's exactly what he wanted, it's not, really. Any other song would be okay. Anything but Johnny Cash, who he hasn't been able to listen to since Dad died. But he doesn't say that, and for a long time, the silence is broken only by the static on the radio.

They spend a week in Jackson, exorcising a demon that was raised by the coach of a high school football team to help them beat their crosstown rivals, a demon which had possessed numerous members of the team in order to give them the strength of ten men. Which meant they were a bitch to tie down and exorcise.

When they're done, Sam looks as exhausted and empty as Dean feels, and Dean feels like his bruises have bruises.

"We're not far from the coast," Sam says in between yawns. "We could spend a few days by the ocean."

Dean almost says no, but there's nothing pressing, and he needs it as much as, if not more than, Sam does, after everything they've been through the past few months. Sam suggests Galveston, but Dean mutters something about not wanting to drive that far, and heads down to Pascagoula instead.

It's cloudy when they get there, and cool, not exactly the sunny vacation spot they were hoping for, but they pick a motel with a decent looking pool for once, and Sam declares his intention to use it.

They're in the Wal-Mart not far from the motel, buying bathing trunks--well, Sam is buying bathing trunks; Dean is stocking up on ammo and junk food--when Dean sees her. She's in the pharmacy area, reading the back of a bottle of shampoo, when he walks by. She raises her head, nostrils flared, and he knows she knows he's there, so there's no point in trying to be stealthy. He walks toward her, not sure what he's going to say, when Sam's voice floats across the aisle.

"Dean, you ready to go?"

"Be right there," he answers, then leans in close to her, breathing in the scent of patchouli and decay. "You stay away from him, you hear me?" His voice is hard.

"You're the one following me," she answers, more concerned with her shopping than with his threats. She puts back one bottle of shampoo and takes down another.

He snorts. "You don't seem to be trying too hard to get away."

She shrugs, holds out the bottle of Pantene. "Do you like the way this smells?"

He shakes his head in exasperation and walks away, finds Sam and steers him towards the checkout. He's just finished loading all their crap in the trunk when he sees her in the parking lot.

He tosses Sam the car keys and says, "Shit, I forgot to get deodorant." Sam looks at him like he's crazy. "I'll go back in and get it. You go back to the motel and have your swim before it starts to rain."

"I can wait."

Dean shakes his head. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Sam still looks suspicious, but he walks around to the driver's side and gets in the car. "I suppose you're going to pick up some condoms while you're in there?"

"Why, Sammy? You looking to get laid?" Even to his own ears, the amusement in his voice sounds strained.

"I heard you talking to someone, Dean. I'm not stupid."

He forces himself to grin. "Can I help it if women can't keep their hands off me? It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it."

Sam just shakes his head and drives away.

Lenore's waiting under the awning over the exit, arms crossed over her waist, bag of groceries at her feet. Dean grabs her wrist and she twists, slides her hand around his, as if they're truly holding hands or something. She leads him around the side, nothing but stray garbage kicking around the asphalt and one of the employees standing out there having a smoke. Dean glares at the kid, who flicks his cigarette to the ground and scurries back inside, just as it starts to drizzle. Sam's not going to get his swim in after all. Dean even feels kind of bad about it.

He presses Lenore up against the side of the building, her black hair catching against the rough gray brick, and leans in to kiss her, ignoring the fine spray of cool water hitting the back of his neck. Her tongue is thick and hot in his mouth, slow and sweet like honey, and when he runs his hand up under her long flowy skirt, the crotch of her panties is already wet for him.

He pushes his fingers beneath the elastic and strokes her. She responds with soft mewling sounds that make his dick ache with need, and when he takes his hand away to unzip his jeans, she gives a choked cry of protest that makes him grin. He doesn't bother with a condom this time, just lifts her up so she can wrap her legs around his hips. He shoves her underwear aside, and pushes into her, closing his eyes and swallowing hard at how good it feels.

She tips her head back against the bricks and pushes her hips against his, urging him to move as the rain comes down harder, soaking them both. He tries to curve his body over hers, as if he can protect her--as if she's something that should be protected--and she says, "Why are you doing this?"

"Why are you letting me?" he counters, and she shakes her head, the answer clear in her eyes and the way her cunt clenches tight around him as he fucks her.

Her hair is dark against the gray brick, her skin pale, her lips pink and wet with rain and saliva, and her cunt is hot, slick and tight around him, while the rain is chilly on his skin. She reaches down between them to rub her clit as he strokes into her, biting at her lips, her jaw, her throat. When she comes, he swallows down whatever it is she's saying with a kiss, his tongue fucking her mouth the way his cock is fucking her pussy.

He keeps thrusting, pleasure rising up inside him until he's almost choking on it as he comes, hard enough to take his breath away and make him feel like he's going to die for those few seconds when everything behind his eyelids whites out.

He rests his head in the crook of her neck, panting, and she runs cold fingers through his wet hair, the closest thing to comfort she can offer, and the only kind he can accept, and he wants it so badly he can taste it over the metallic tang of the rain on her skin.

"You're not such a tough guy after all, huh?" she says, and the gentle amusement in her voice brings him up short.

He pulls away and stares at her for a long moment, surprise overcoming exhaustion, and she lowers her legs to the ground, holding his gaze. He sees pity in her eyes now, and he doesn't like it, doesn't want it from anyone, least of all some undead hippie chick who likes to let him fuck her when they should be trying to kill each other.

He shoves himself back into his jeans, zips up, and leaves without a word. She says his name once, and he's tempted to turn around, but he doesn't. He keeps walking and doesn't stop until he's back at the motel, shivering in his soaked clothes.

Sam takes one look at him and says, "I didn't use all the hot water."

"That's a first," Dean says, but what he means is, _thanks._ He hopes Sam understands.

The hot water feels good against his chilled skin, and the steam eases the pressure in his chest.

In the morning, he takes another trip to Wal-Mart, buys the deodorant he doesn't really need just yet, and a copy of _The Essential Johnny Cash_ on cassette from the bargain bin.

Two days later, as they pull out of the parking lot, he shoves the cassette into the tape deck and presses play. The familiar sound of "It Ain't Me, Babe" fills the car. Sam smiles, and Dean is good to go.

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> The song Sam is humming and quoting is, of course, "Jackson" by Johnny Cash and June Carter, which contains the lyrics "We've been talking about Jackson, ever since the fire went out." And the title is from "It Ain't Me, Babe" by Bob Dylan, as covered by Johnny Cash.


End file.
